


a lifetime burning in every moment

by vapid



Series: 色 界。 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artist/Muse Kunikage, Bottom Kageyama, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Photographer Kunimi, Top Kunimi, Warning: it’s Kinky, there's plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vapid/pseuds/vapid
Summary: He loves him. He loves him back. He loves him to the brink of ruin. And he loves him back to the brink of creation.OrEnter the mind of Kunimi Akira, where everything his muse touches turns to gold.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira
Series: 色 界。 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905247
Comments: 17
Kudos: 217





	a lifetime burning in every moment

**Author's Note:**

> there is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7e88h7SIm6wmepMfCwZ3Pf?si=SwCFNXtITZSw4YhIIAGu0A) for this fic!
> 
> some content warnings:  
> \- alcohol use, smoking || light choking, D/S dynamics, edging, mild blood mention

_“The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated_

_Of dead and living. Not the intense moment_

_Isolated, with no before and after,_

_But a lifetime burning in every moment—”_

—T.S. Eliot

  
  


The ticket to the exhibition is cream colored and lined with maroon, a velvety texture. Akira stares at it as it quivers in his hand, a smile ghosting over his face at the block letters in sleek black dotted across the thin material:

**_ANOINTMENT._ **

_photography by: A.KIRA._

An odd silence hangs in the hallway, the air conditioning system whirring, loud in place of hushed breathing and a quiet exchange of words indiscernible to Akira's ears. Oddly, it feels as though the dozens of people milling about in the gallery are simultaneously holding their breath, eyes fixed on the sheets of black and white laid out before them. 

Akira plays around with the ticket for a few more minutes, feeling sharp edges pressing deep into his skin almost painfully. He's standing at the far end of the hall, the corners dark enough to keep himself hidden from unwanted media attention, but just enough for him to gauge the people’s reactions. 

It’s immensely entertaining, the way their breathing catches in their throats, the flickering transition from widened eyes to hooded gazes when they take in the blown-out, monochrome shots of one boy in his multifarious forms. 

It’s this quiet exhilaration that always rips through him as he sees the world falter in the face of his art, in the face of his muse. _His_ muse.

Speaking of him.

 _Kageyama’s late_ , Akira thinks. That’s unusual for him. Akira smooths the ends of his dress shirt, teal and almost see-through in the faded light bouncing off white painted walls. 

“Kunimi.” 

Akira starts and glances up, a little startled.

Tobio's standing in front of him, a strange, shy distance away. The clean lines of his midnight blue suit jacket cut at the elbows, trousers accentuating the lean muscle of thigh and calf, polished burgundy leather tapping the floor nervously. 

Akira hadn’t expected anyone to see him shadowed in the corners—but then again, Tobio’s always been observant. Always had a most acute awareness of all things Akira.

Raising an eyebrow, Akira beckons him closer. “Star of the show and you’re fashionably late, huh?”

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be the star?” Tobio questions back, frowning a little as he steps closer. He tugs at the cuffs of his white shirt, an uncomfortable brush down a suit Akira had tailor-made for him. 

“Well, I’m not in any of these photos though, am I?”

"True," Tobio responds with a huff, leaning back against the wall, shoulder bumping shoulder. 

They stay silent for a while, watching visitors come and go in waves. A lone ticket drifts and lands the floor. 

“People see what they want to see, Kageyama,” Akira begins again, tangling his fingers in Tobio's. They feel warm to the touch. “And so far everyone’s in love with you, you know.”

Tobio flushes, light pink on his cheeks. “That’s good, I suppose...I dunno, I guess after all this time, I’m still not the best at understanding your work.”

Akira hums, letting his eyes roam down the two directions of the hallways that seem to stretch on infinitely on both ends. “That’s okay, baby. You just have to feel. There's not really much else to it."

Tobio says nothing. He glances over at the photo hanging from a clear string directly across him. The photograph, like everything else, is washed in hues of grey—except for a single streak of red, creating a line on Tobio's bottom lip.

“I feel...I feel like I’m looking at something sacred.” The words come out hushed, a rippling quiet. “Like I’m perfect. Like you made me perfect.”

Akira laughs at the answer, adoration churning in his heart. “That’s exactly it baby. You _are_ perfect.”

Tobio flushes and avoids Akira’s gaze. 

“Are you nervous?”

“I mean, I guess? but it’s stupid... you can’t even see my face in these, anyhow.”

“But don’t you feel like you’re looking into a mirror?” Akira‘s question comes out in a whisper. “They’re you. All you. They’re you in my eyes, through my lens, filling up my work.”

Akira reaches a hand upwards, slow, magnetic, and cups Tobio's face. Thumb runs over smooth skin, ghosting across the familiar curve and dip of tobio’s cheekbones. He lets out another silent chuckle at the way Tobio jumps a little at the contact, eyes flashing underneath pale yellow light. 

Above them, the air conditioning system continues to whir. Sweat lines the tuft of hair down the side of Tobio’s face. The sound of heels tapping against the marble flooring resounds.

Click. 

  
  
  


Click.

  
  
  


Click.

  
  
  


Click.

  
  
  


_Click._

“Good, good.” Akira murmurs. The camera weighs in his hands like an extension of himself. 

Tobio's body is spread over black vinyl, naked save for a pair of dark blue lace gloves. He looks beautiful—beautiful now, beautiful always. His fingers are pale, slightly peach through the thin material, as he slowly drags them up his body, from the dent in his hipbone to the shadow painted underneath his chest.

“Turn your head a little, tilt up—yeah, yeah that’s it, baby.”

Tobio trembles ever so slightly at the pet name, Adam's Apple quivering at the way dark eyes burn into every line of him. 

Akira licks his lips and runs a tongue over his teeth, his mouth missing the taste of nicotine. After two hours of nonstop shooting he’s in dire need of a smoke break, or maybe a whiskey. Maybe both.

Or maybe it’s the taste of Tobio he’s missing. 

_Click, click._

The studio is silent apart from a distant hum of traffic two stories below and quiet exhales, the shutter going off in intervals of threes and fives. Akira stands in front of an opened black umbrella, blinding white light draping Tobio in a halo.

There’s always something peculiar about the air in the studio when he’s shooting with Tobio. A skewed shift in color, perhaps, or a strange taste on his tongue.

It amazes Akira still, how every possible angle produces shots infinitely different from the next. Tobio moves on his own, perfect on his own.

In his presence a force emerges, one that draws Akira closer to him, closer towards the vinyl-covered floor. Soon enough Akira's perched above him, knees pressed into worn wooden planes, enclosing a hard, slim waist between his thighs. Tobio stiffens at the sudden proximity, the edges of a wrinkle forming between his eyes. 

“Oi. Relax, Kageyama,” Akira lets out a tsk. His free hand reaches downwards to hold Tobio’s chin up, a gentle tug to the left sending Tobio's breath spiraling. “Your face scrunches up when you’re all antsy.”

“And whose fault is that?” Tobio grumbles out—but as much as he tries to avert Akira’s gaze, Akira can feel his body turning instantly pliant under his touch. 

“How is it my fault, exactly?” Akira asks, amusement coloring his voice. He leans in closer and sighs into his favorite scent: Miss Dior’s Blooming Bouquet, a whiff of aftershave, fruity hair setting spray. 

“Just...don’t come up so close so suddenly...” Tobio answers, a blush settling on his cheeks. In a futile attempt he tries to shuffle backwards, but Akira ignores him, locking him in place. 

Instead, Akira focuses on assessing Tobio’s condition: his skin is slightly dewy, a flawless shade of ivory; the elegant curve of his nose dips sharply and shimmery gloss lines his lips. The strands that fall over cobalt eyes are fluffy, inky black that frames his face perfectly. His makeup is starting to run a little, given the heat of a July sun pouring through the open window, but that’s fine—honestly speaking, it’s a little too perfect for Akira’s taste. 

“Hm…” Akira tilts Tobio’s face to the right and Tobio shivers. 

Something settles in the pit of Akira’s stomach.

It’s a sudden desire Akira’s all too familiar with—an itch to ruin this perfection that tingles on the tips of his fingers. Tobio’s body spills over black and the pale, unmarked expanse of his skin irks Akira to no end. Fingers press down hard on the plastic expanse of the camera. 

It’s this sudden desire that makes Akira want to dirty the blue in Tobio’s eyes, the blue in the lace gloves that fit perfectly all the way down to his wrists.

Akira had gotten these gloves as a gift from a sponsored gig. _They’re vintage, you won’t find them anywhere else! We have more where this came from!_ were the excited words the representative of the brand had given him, running greasy hands over oiled-up hair in hopes of weaseling out a future deal. Akira held zero interest in agreeing, but he accepted the gift anyway. 

On opening the box, the first thought after setting eyes on intricate lines of silky blue laid out in a bed of velvet was this: _Tobio_. 

How utterly pretty they would look on Tobio. 

And they do. The lace glitters almost, matching the dust on Tobio’s cheeks as his hand grasps Akira’s, still cupping his face. 

“The gloves look good on you,” Akira says, voice quiet as he brings the camera to his eyes again, observing Tobio’s face in the small square. “But then again, everything looks good on you, baby.”

Tobio flushes at the praise. A golden cross appears in the center of his face. It focuses and unfocuses, focuses again. 

"Stop it," the small pout on Tobio’s lips gives way to a dull ache in Akira’s chest and the desire comes back in full force. 

Tobio’s breath hitches when the fingers on his cheeks tighten, a sudden yank that closes the distance between them. Akira forces his chin up, the camera held to the side of his head. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, baby,” Akira breathes against Tobio’s mouth, warm air fanning across his face. Blue eyes widen in shock, a dark flare simmering.

Time seemed to hang still until Akira hums and releases his grasp, chuckling under his breath when Tobio gasps and sits up, rubbing the tender spots on his skin where Akira’s fingers had dug in with iron strength. 

Akira sets his camera down and stands, wincing a little at the belated soreness that rushes through his arm. He pushes up the sleeves of his light pink button-down and massages the tight muscle as he walks across the warmly lit studio to a wall next to his desk. Nailed into the concrete are lines of shelves littered with all the cameras he’d accumulated over the last five years, from bulky Nikon D850s to random disposable cameras he had purchased on a whim. 

He turns his attention to the right end of the shelf where his three compact film cameras are neatly placed, eyes immediately resting on the Konica Hexar AF sitting in the middle. It was a gift from his mother, a rarity found almost nowhere else. Akira takes it and weighs it carefully, thoughtful, running a thumb over its black body and worn brown leather finish. 

Clutching the camera in his hand, Akira turns to his desk next to the shelves. He spares a glance in Tobio’s direction, all propped up on his elbows, looking slightly dazed. 

_God_ , he’s beautiful. His hair shimmers, the glitter around his eyes and along his cheeks dancing in concurrence. The arc of his body is fluid and Akira thinks he could fill up a museum with every inch.

What power a muse holds in his artist. It’s Tobio’s inherent ability to make Akira’s fingers ache to capture all of him, such mundane moments all these are. Even amongst the spread out clutter filling up his studio, Tobio’s presence overwhelms everything, engulfing everything in Akira’s vision. 

It’s this phantom desire to chase after, to claim, to immortalize Kageyama Tobio in his work—forever constant, static. 

Tearing his gaze from Tobio, Akira sighs as he rummages through his drawer for his stock of film. He hasn’t really thought about a theme yet for the upcoming exhibition, but there’s really not much to take into consideration. Akira’s never been one to care for specifics. 

Dragging his fingers across the rows of small yellow boxes, Akira closes his eyes and paints. Flashes of black and white appear in his head; a sharp tonal dissonance, blurred out splotches of a body and face. 

In the end he chooses the Kodak T-MAX P3200. It has the perfect grainy texture, stunning highlights, and an overall richness that just feels _right_ , somehow. It feels like Tobio.

And usually, that's all Akira needs to set his heart on a medium for his art.

With his free hand, Akira grabs the half finished bottle of Hibiki 21 sitting on his desk and pours it out into a spare glass he always keeps ready at hand. The amber liquid swishes along the clean-cut ridges inside the glass, soft and languid, molten gold. 

Tobio straightens his posture when Akira returns to his original spot. Setting the glass down, Akira rips the packet of film open.

Tobio stares as he works away. “Why’d you change the camera?” 

“I’ve been wanting to try out this new film I bought the other day,” Akira explains lightly, returning to his kneeled position over Tobio. “A compact camera would be easier for me to hold, too.”

The film makes a muted sound as it slides into the camera. The _click_ is almost deafening. 

“Kageyama.”

The change is instantaneous, a sudden slant in the air. 

Tobio barely has time to respond before Akira’s mouth is on his. The kiss starts out gentle enough, a lazy peck on pillow-soft lips, fingers tangled in the back of his hair. Tongue grazing teeth in familiarity, sighs filling up the air.

Akira would like to think he’s molded himself in Tobio’s mouth. And in his, Tobio’s.

Tobio whines into the kiss, Akira’s tongue tracing circles on the roof of his mouth. In a feeble attempt Tobio reaches his arms up to wrap around Akira’s neck, only to find them slammed back down on the floor, Akira’s free hand encircling soft, lace-covered wrists. 

“Kunimi...” The word disappears in exchanged breaths, tumbling down throats. Akira’s own name tastes like a strawberry field.

The hand in Tobio’s hair snakes to the front and it closes around Tobio’s neck—a strained gasp, a burst of color in his cheeks. The pads of Akira’s fingers squeeze down on an accelerated pumping of blood and Tobio gasps into the open-mouthed kiss. 

“So pretty, always so pretty for me.” Akira’s voice softens, silky against the base of Tobio’s neck. 

Hand tightens around neck. No room for anything else.

“I’m going to take pictures of you like this, Kageyama.” 

“Okay,” Tobio’s reply is instant. 

Akira smiles. “Good boy.”

Akira continues to press kisses on Tobio's skin, from the edge of his collarbones to the firm muscle of his chest. Tobio yelps, a nip of skin and red blossoms. _Better,_ Akira thinks.

Pushing himself back up, Akira brushes a hand through Tobio’s hair. “Suck me off, baby. Can you do that for me?”

Tobio gasps a little at the command and nods mutely, shifting around until he’s on his knees bending forward, face inches from Akira’s crotch. 

His hands are hesitant when he works the button and zipper of Akira’s dress pants, every brush of soft polyester against his own skin making him jump. Akira smiles, watching the curl of Tobio’s mouth tremble ever so slightly when the waistband falls away to Akira’s hardening length pressed against dark grey briefs. Tobio plants soft kisses through the cotton material before tugging it down. 

The lace gloves that press against Akira’s cock are soft, coarse, warm material smoothing down his skin and light shivers descend into the base of Akira's stomach. It’s heavy in the palm of Tobio's hand and he gives it a few light pumps, fingers wrapped tightly until it grows fully hard.

Without a second‘s hesitation, Tobio takes Akira whole. 

Akira sucks in a breath, a silent shudder ripping through him at the feeling of his cock wedged in the thick, heavy warmth of Tobio’s throat. He can’t help the small grin that ghosts across his lips at the way Tobio’s head bobs up and down, up and down—a sloppy urgency that shines through in the form of gloss and precum and laced fingers gripping the base of his length.

Akira adds to the strength in the hand twisted in Tobio’s hair and Tobio chokes, a line of spit dribbling in a curved line from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin. Akira’s heart pounds in his chest and he raises the camera to his right eye. The shutter is quiet when he gingerly presses a finger down on the silver button.

_Click._

Perfect.

“Look at me, Kageyama.”

Tobio obliges and stares up, his mouth still achingly full and in a single instant, Akira goes lightheaded. Cobalt blue eyes are watery, desperate, wrought with feverish desire. The tip of his cock is pushed against the warm flesh in Tobi's left cheek, flushed skin turning a darker shade of pretty pink—and Akira thinks about devoting a lifetime to one face and one body alone. 

Tobio hollows his cheeks and Akira sighs. Another harsh tug of hair and Tobio whines, cloudy eyes fogging over. The sound sends shocks to the dull pressure in Akira’s abdomen and he exhales, tightening his grip in Tobio’s hair at the feeling of gentle teeth grazing his skin, of a tongue laving his cock in strips. Tobio’s face is lined with sweat, a soft red blooming on his cheeks.

Tobio quickens his speed, lace starting to rip at the edges. Two pumps, one press of his mouth on the head. Repeat and repeat. Akira feels tremors streaking downwards and he lifts his camera again. A soreness creeps.

_Click_.

Akira lowers the camera and takes in the physical sight laid out on display. 

He sucks in a breath. 

Tobio pants underneath white fluorescence shining from a single strobe light from behind them. Fully bearing the brunt of Akira’s harshness, Akira wonders if devastation could be perfected. He runs a thumb over the tender skin under Tobio’s eyes, wiping away the beginnings of a tear pooling in the corners. 

“God, I’m obsessed with you, baby. I adore you. Only you.”

Tobio whimpers. Heat builds, intense and slow, a burning that could pulse and overflow at any given moment. Akira grits his teeth as Tobio’s mouth presses featherlight kisses on the tip, tongue swirling in circles and gathering cum, shadows of white and pink filling up Akira’s vision. He goes down again, the weight of Akira’s length heavy on Tobio’s tongue. He lets out a muffled noise and swallows around Akira’s cock. Akira curses quietly under his breath, pressure coiling around him in wreaths—and then—

The burst comes in a single moment. Akira swears under his breath and comes hard, a sudden overflow of pressure and he’s spilling white all over Tobio’s face. Tobio’s expression contorts a little, eyes half-lidded. Tobio catches the rest with his mouth and Akira sees streaks of cum rolling down his throat. 

" _Fuck_ ," Akira mumbles through his teeth. 

“Kunimi…” Tobio’s voice is hoarse, meek, slightly breathy. Pale light falls on his face in streams, bouncing off the black vinyl ground and illuminating his face with almost too much clarity. Tobio licks the cum that had landed on his lips and on the corners of his mouth. It dots across his cheeks and nose, sticky on his eyelids and above the curve of his eyebrow. A nebulous glaze paints his irises, blown out and blue, prettier than anything Akira’s ever seen. 

Akira shudders at the sight and feels himself riding his orgasm out longer, feels it ripple through his body and cutting through his mind, limbs becoming liquified. In a chain of slow, petrified movements, he brings the camera up to his eye again. Within the tiny square frame, their gazes lock.

Something unspoken seems to pass between them. It cuts through heaviness, through layers of silver plastic. Tobio’s eyes flash, a strange defiance, a single moment of unsheathed pride. 

_Click_.

Ah. It shook. 

Akira releases the camera from his grasp and lets it sway, left and right, over his chest. It slows to a stop and sticks to the growing dampness on his shirt, a sheen of sweat down the center of his chest to the opening of his dress pants. 

“Kunimi…” Tobio’s voice travels through haziness and Akira glances down, catching Tobio’s face resting against his inner thigh. 

Humming, Akira cups Tobio’s face and runs a thumb across burning skin, spreading his own cum in generous strokes. It paints his cheeks a luminous white.

“Yes, baby? What is it?”

“I love you,” Tobio’s voice is muffled as he presses kisses down the softening length and up the slight peek of hard muscle showing through Akira’s shirt. “Me too. I’m yours. I’m only yours.”

Akira exhales. _God_.

Here he is, face nestled between Akira’s thighs, presented in front of Akira like a godsend: a perfect splash of light and cum and runny makeup that culminates in the form of Kageyama Tobio. It burns itself in Akira’s memory. 

The waves ebb. Akira shoves a hand in his pocket for his pack of Camels, deftly shaking a stick out from the opening. 

He lights it and takes a drag, leaning his head back. Light ricochets off the ceiling and dust shivers. Akira relishes in the feeling of smoke whistling down his throat and into his lungs, a wave of calm washing over the dizzying heat in his body. A chocolatey taste lingers in his mouth. 

Tobio’s still panting a little when Akira finally feels the post-orgasm numbness slip from his bones and is replaced with a syrupy warmth in his chest.

Akira brings the glass to his lips and downs everything in one go. The whiskey is tangy, a happy bitter on his tongue, smooth down his throat and he feels it all the way to his heart pounding against his ribcage. The alcohol burns in his mouth in the short absence of cigarette smoke and Akira runs a tongue across his lips. The curve and dip of Tobio’s body sways a little in his sight, blurry from the comforting heat spreading through his body. Creamy and pristine, _still too perfect_ , Akira muses.

“Now on your back for me, baby. Yeah, that’s it.”

Tobio moves in compliance with Akira’s words and he scrambles from his hunched position, heels leaving baby dents in the sleek vinyl. He returns to his original pose from the shoot earlier, one that feels like eons ago. He lies still, breath creating ripples that rise and plummet with every passing second. 

Akira watches, faint amusement threatening to bubble from his throat and burst through. Another drag, longer this time. Thumb under milky paper, Akira flicks into the glass. Grey ashes fall, mini cyclones in the shallow Hibiki remains.

Akira locks eyes with Tobio as he sinks down to his knees once more, trapping a body underneath him like he’s kneeling before a god. ( _a god, his muse, what’s the difference?_ ) His hands start to perform the rites that have already ingrained themselves in his memory. It begins with a flat palm against skin, a slow inch downwards from a firm chest to jutted hip bones—lazy, precise. 

“We don’t need lube now, do we?” The question leaves Akira's lips in a hushed murmur. “Still tired from last night?”

“N-no, I’m not tired,” Tobio answers, eyes glossing over, cheeks tinted red, knees buckling in muscle memory. “I’m good, Kunimi.”

Akira smiles. That’s all he needed to hear. “Perfect.”

He bends down and captures Tobio’s mouth in his. He tastes salty, strangely sweet; of Akira’s cum and faint strawberry gloss, a dash of whiskey and burnt tobacco. Everything converges, swirling and disappearing in each other’s mouths.

Akira breaks it first and sits up. He grins a little, savoring the taste of himself on his tongue. 

One last drag. Akira stubs the cigarette out in the glass, filmy with ash. “Alright then.” 

With his other hand, Akira places two fingers in his mouth, flat on his tongue, eyes never leaving Tobio’s. Strange, how their movements seem to reflect and dance around each other—Tobio’s own mouth falls open at the sight, as though he’s taking in Akira’s fingers himself. 

Akira removes them with a soft _pop._ Bending down, he begins to draw lines. Lines upon lines, crisscrossing from one end of Tobio’s abdomen to the other, down to the reddening tip of Tobio's cock. Aching, Tobio hisses when Akira’s finger comes in contact with his inner thigh, wet warmth tracing featherlight circles around his rim. 

“Relax. Breathe out.” Akira commands softly, an imperative call.

Akira pushes the first finger in, the edges of his ring brushing against Tobio’s hole and a shattered gasp follows, toned thighs quivering. Akira massages the flesh encasing his finger for a few seconds before pulling out, watching the hole clench helplessly over air. And when he glances up again, he finds Tobio’s expression strangely distorted—whether the twist in his mouth and tightness in his eyes are out of pain or pleasure, Akira can’t tell. Something stirs in him at the imposed mystery. 

Akira plays around for a few minutes, a deep crook of his finger and a tickle up and down his skin, and Akira savors the sight of Tobio’s body coming undone. 

“Huh.” Akira breathes out a surprised chuckle. “Think you can come from just one finger?” 

Tobio whines and shakes his head, the sound reverberating around the studio. Akira ignores him and continues to pump with a single finger, slow and full, his other hand gently kneading the warm flesh of Tobio's ass.

You’re so beautiful.” Akira murmurs, leaning forward and biting down on collarbones, still much too unspoiled for his taste. 

In the growing swelter of his studio basked in afternoon warmth, saturated with smells of sex and burnt ink, Akira thinks the body deserves love. Tobio, delicate in the palm of his hand—Tobio, overwhelming in his art. 

“Kunimi,” Tobio gasps out. 

“Do you want to come, darling?”

Tobio nods, a violent tremble tearing through him.

“But you _can’t_.” Akira feels a smile stretch across his face, unable to hide the delight bleeding into his voice. “Not yet.” 

At that, Tobio lets out a sudden sob. It slices through the heavy air, wet and sweet, high and silvery. Akira stops abruptly at the sound, raising an eyebrow in surprise. 

“Shh, baby,” Akira coos, bending down and brushing his lips over tears spilling in waterfalls down Tobio’s cheeks. “Why’re you crying?”

Tobio doesn’t answer, hiccups escaping his mouth in tiny bells. The redness lining his eyes replace the glitter that came before it, now dirtied and darkened by streaks of mascara decorating his face. Gloss barely remains on his mouth, swollen red. 

Hm. Almost there. But not quite. 

The camera almost slips from his grasp, leather body slippery when he presses down on the silver button.

_Click_. 

“Good, good. You sure one finger’s not enough for you?” His words taste honeyed even to himself; sickly so. 

Akira pumps his finger in and twists, repeating the motions agonizingly slow; Tobio’s whole body shakes, cock flushed against his stomach. Tobio shakes his head in response, neck strained, veins thrumming against skin. 

Retracting his finger whole, Akira decides, on a whim, to take his sweet, sweet time before adding a second. _Good cigarette break_ , Akira thinks to himself, slightly delirious with glee. Ignoring the writhing body underneath him and the near painful throbbing against his briefs, Akira shakes a new stick out and shoves it between his teeth, the orange flame flickering daisy yellow in his eyes. Another gust of smoke travels down his throat, more subtle this time round.

“...Please, _please_ ,” Tobio’s voice comes out in shards, toes curling against vinyl. “Kunimi, _please_ …”

“Hm. Fine then, since you asked so nicely...” Akira trails off, watching light bounce off wetted cheeks. 

His free hand trails downwards, circling the softened, malleable flesh around Tobio’s hole. Another drag, longer this time. He throws his head back and watches the smoke dissipate before pushing the first finger back in, a broken yelp escaping Tobio’s lips. 

Akira stares as muscles contract and dark pink seeps from the head of Tobio’s cock down to the bottom, and he thinks he might be a little sick in the head. 

“ _Please…_ ” The word carves itself in Tobio’s mouth. 

Akira smiles, quiet fondness seeping through him. Perhaps he can be kind to his muse today. Without another second lost, Akira slams two fingers in deep and curls. Broken cries overflow the empty studio, springing off walls. Akira adds a third and repeats, pace erratic.

“How pretty,” Akira murmurs. Tobio shudders at the praise, dark blue eyes lined with a fresh wave of tears. Lashes dotted with clear droplets, a sheen of sweat lining the cross of his chest, and Tobio’s skin glistens like he’s been anointed.

_Anointed_. Behind the hazy swirl in his head, Akira perks up at the word. How fitting. That’s exactly it.

The idea hits him like a fresh nicotine rush and Akira lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. He takes a deep drag and leans in close, mouth centimeters from Tobio’s, and exhales. Pale smoke unfurls. Tobio coughs, wreathed in white, another sob growing in his chest, gathering in dark streams down his face. 

And so the ruins slowly come together. Akira feels a shiver snake around him, adding to the weight of the camera hanging around the collar of his shirt. Placing the cigarette between his lips, he slowly raises the camera to his eyes.

Like staring through a looking glass, Akira sees himself in the smoke staining the lens. 

_Click_.

Akira peers over the camera and smiles. 

Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt that had unraveled sometime in between now and then, he runs his left hand down to the base of his cock. Positioning himself, Akira tugs on Tobio’s ankle, inciting a breathy whine, and props his leg over the dip in his elbow. 

Akira stills for a second, the spotlessness of Tobio’s thigh catching his eye. Bending down, Akira bites, harsh, breaking the skin. Tobio whimpers as Akira rubs his tongue over the marks and watches red bloom in his vision, satisfied, before turning his focus back.

“Breathe out.” Akira says, stern, quiet. Tobio’s chest rises and descends in rapids.

The tip pushes in and Tobio falls apart. 

“ _Kunimi_.” 

Akira’s name comes out in a sob, louder this time. Tobio’s nails dig into his own skin through the broken lace, a collection of wine colored half-moons adorning the stretch of muscled thighs. _Shh_ , Akira whispers against the shell of Tobio’s ear, a thumb smoothing over the tears gathered in pools down his cheek.

Akira hums and it resembles a lullaby. He flips the cigarette around and brings it to Tobio’s lips. They tremble, so fragile he thinks Tobio could break. 

“Open your mouth.”

Adam’s Apple jolts. Lips part and close. They form a little ‘o’ and smoke unfolds across Akira’s face. He thinks he can taste Tobio in it. A series of coughs ensue, throat raw and throbbing, blue eyes misting over. Beautiful. Beautiful.

Akira leans in again and presses a kiss on Tobio’s mouth, barely catching the last few tendrils of white. It passes through the confined air between them, chocolatey, smoother than the hand gliding down Tobio’s body to the junction where hard bone meets soft skin. 

“Feeling better, darling?” 

Tobio looks up at him, dazed, and Akira swears he could see the unfamiliar flux of nicotine swirling in watery blue. The trembling around his cock recedes, followed by a static stillness in the body that prolongs the pent-up dullness in the pit of Akira stomach. Stubbing out the cigarette, the paper melts into the dirtied glass. 

“Deep breaths.” Akira repeats the words like a hymn. “That’s it, baby. That’s it.” 

Akira starts to move. Slow, lacking in a smoother rhythm, Akira moves when he wants to move. He goes deeper with each thrust, short intervals giving Tobio just enough time to adjust but not enough for him to react.

“I-I…” Tobio’s face twists almost violently. “I can’t...I can’t—please... _please_ let me cum—”

“Shh, not yet,” Akira shushes, covering a hand over Tobio’s mouth. “You can't come yet.”

Tobio whines against Akira’s palm, another cry bubbling in his throat. Akira lifts his hand and catches the sound before it bursts through. The kiss is rougher this time, a swift upturn in pace, a flurry exchange of spit and teeth and tongue. Akira feels Tobio’s breath against his mouth, heated and broken, and it lights the building pressure in the base of his cock. 

Tobio wraps both legs around Akira’s waist and pulls, wedging Akira’s cock deeper and deeper until he bottoms out. Akira pulls back from the kiss and Tobio whines, tongue hanging out, eyes glassy with desperation.

“ _Fuck_.” Akira bites down, a cruel wrench with a sudden burst of lust, and suddenly there’s red. A sharp tang of metal on his tongue, warm and forgiving. 

Tobio pants, a hand flying up to his mouth. Blood stains blue, stains the pads of his fingers peeking out from behind ripped lace. It slowly flits across his bottom lip, painting the swollen pink a fresh hue of red.

Slightly distraught, Akira leans in for a taste; a soft, cautious lick. Tobio’s tongue seeks his on instinct, the taste of blood prominent in the enclosed space between them. Tobio’s lips are soft, wet, blood on the tip of Akira’s tongue. Gripping Tobio’s hips mid-air, Akira holds up his camera in his free hand. One more. _One more._

Through the lens of his camera, the bright wound on Tobio’s mouth glares out proudly like a mark of triumph. 

_Click_.

“Kunimi—”

“Shh, you’ve been so good, baby.” Akira murmurs, digging nails into Tobio’s ass and he feels his cock twitch. The pressure increases tenfold, stomach coiled, tense and rigid. 

Unhooking the camera from his neck, it takes everything in Akira not to toss the camera on the floor. The thrusts become staggered, skin loud against skin. Sweat and precum stain the naked expanse of Tobio’s chest, staining the front of Akira’s shirt. 

Akira presses kisses down Tobio’s neck, pliant in his arms. “I love you, only you.”

Vision blurring, pressure builds. Tobio’s form is the only lucid thing left in Akira’s head.

“Come, baby,” Akira whispers. Sweet, devoted. 

Tobio sobs at the affirmation and crumbles within seconds. 

He spills over himself. Akira fucks Tobio through his orgasm and he follows shortly, feeling shudders rip through a tender body underneath him. Or was it his own body trembling? He’s not so sure anymore. White fills his sight, a color so warm—so, so warm. 

“You were so good, baby,” Akira mumbles against Tobio’s mouth. The taste of dried blood and smoke washes over an understated linger of Hibiki 21. 

  
  
  


Twilight. The sky changes shape, shades of red and pink and blue. It’s reflected in the bodies tangled on the floor of an empty, sun-filled studio. Fingers entwined, lips against damp skin. The artist kisses his muse, again and again and again.

  
  
  


So he loves him. And he loves him back. He loves him to the brink of ruin, and he loves him back to the brink of creation.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> two months of nonstop artist/muse knkg brainrot has resulted in this entirely self indulgent fic. shoutout to elo aka ceo of kunikage for brainstorming and crying with me throughout the whole thing!!!! and for helping w the playlist AAAA ILY <3
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/inumvkis) || [cc](https://curiouscat.me/inumvkis)


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